By Al Drinkle
Wine is basically the only alcoholic beverage that I drink. As if this isn't restrictive enough, it probably goes without saying that I'm somewhat particular about the wines that I imbibe. Consequently, I'm adept at sneaking my wine into venues or situations in which bringing your own booze is either highly unorthodox or blatantly illegal. When this is impossible, instead of compromising my preferences and standards I'll usually just drink water—but there are exceptions.
My wife loves Caesars so I'll occasionally drink one with her, especially on alpine getaways. This is a curious compromise of my drinking patterns as it contravenes my dietary proclivities along with my outright dismissal of distillates. When I'm at Rain Dog Bar, I'll ask Bill or one of his talented colleagues to recommend a beer, something that I'll also drink when I find myself mashing slices in Dandy's taproom¹ . At a Japanese restaurant with a thoughtful sake program, I'll likewise accept the counsel of the onsite authority.
The other evening I attended a punk show which, assuming passionate bands, I find to be exhilarating if socially exhausting. As my introversion increases with my years, it's no longer the kind of event that I can attend entirely sober, especially if my social battery has been depleted from a day at the shop. Generally I would pack bottles of Riesling to drain in the alley in between sets, but on this particular evening it was -20C, and despite having enjoyed wine prior to my arrival, the situation dictated that I further augment my social lubrication.
I approached the bar and, in doomed competition with the music, queried the bartender as to what kind of dark beer they had on offer. She responded that Guinness was the only option, and notwithstanding my fanatical opposition to corporate entities, I'm fleetingly sentimental about the brand having visited the St. James Gate Brewery in my early twenties.
The bartender took my money and, to my naive disappointment, handed me a can of Guinness. I caught her attention once more and asked if I could please have a glass. Hesitating for a moment before the vessel materialised, she leaned across the bar to yell in my ear.
“Just don't take the glass into the mosh pit!” she hollered as I fought to contain my laughter.
“I'm 42-years-old,” I replied, “I'm not going anywhere near the mosh pit, with or without this glass!”
She gave me a look that said “whatever” before turning to the next patron and I walked away from the bar, dutifully circumventing the front of the stage where people half my age and twice my intoxication level pummeled the shit out of each other in the name of dancing. It was then that I realised my mistake.
“Wait a minute!” I thought to myself, “I'm not 42… I'm 43!” When I turned to explain my error to the bartender who was busy setting fire to some ornate cocktail, I immediately realised that she would care even less than I did. So I took a nostalgic swig of black froth, carefully inserted my ear plugs, and enjoyed the punk rock mayhem while subconsciously calculating how many hours past my bedtime it was.
¹ It should be mentioned that Rain Dog Bar and Dandy Brewing both have completely respectable, concise wine lists.
